"Do you have a handbag, a backpack, a briefcase? Describe the receptacle and all of its current contents."

Uh-oh. This (as many people will know) could take a while.

This is The Sheep. It is so-named because it is big, white and woolly.

It always contains a buttload of stuff, and today this is particularly true because I've been visiting my friend Em. So there's a toothbrush in a little case (well the head of it is), a roll-on, hairspray and a hairbrush. (Everything else I nicked from Emma....I think she expects this by now.)

Then of course there's the usual stuff.

I was recently at a cool event for people who like books. That sentence went wrong. Let me start again. I was recently at a book reading at the Book Hive in Norwich. The book was a load of (fictional) stories written by people in Myanmar. One of whom was there. He had been a political prisoner for about twenty years. It was all very interesting....

Anyhow, I sat on the floor next to a partially sighted lady, and we started discussing 'packing light.' She was in favour, whereas I felt it was perfectly sensible, if not essential, to have:

1. An umbrella (in case it rains a lot and isn't windy).2. A cap with a peak for if it is windy and raining a bit.3. A knitted hat for if it is cold.4. Gloves for if it is cold.5. An emergency scarf for if it is cold and I have forgotten to wear a scarf.6. Plasters.7. An audio recording device.8. Gum.9. Paracetamol.10. My bike keys (plus various others).11. Purse.12. Spare batteries, just in case.13. Etc.

(Etc.)

However I couldn't justify the spare stick for my glue gun....

There was probably an ending to that tale, but it was a while ago now. I think she might have laughed at me.

"Fill this space with a list of people and things that you are grateful for."

What am I grateful for? This is a very difficult thing to answer. Not because there aren't BILLIONS of things, but because there is inevitably an implication (unintended) that 1st in list = best, and it's downhill from there. And if I were to try to decide which to put 1st, how would I do this? What criteria? History, biology, now? Or what I'm not? (E.g. I'm grateful I'm not a refugee trying to get to the UK.)

Obviously there's the Oscar speech horror of missing someone out, particularly someone obvious, or who feels they are obvious. I often worry about this, when planning my Oscar speeches although, more often, my speeches are just thinly veiled/outright attacks on the *&$%s who bullied me at secondary school and usually my imagination just settles with a double-handed up yours that the tv people aren't able to blur out because it's LIVE! Mwah ha har. (Obviously there is no Oscar anywhere near the horizon, but it's nice to daydream.)

Anyway, gratitude. And how to order it.

Well. Let's try going the historical route.

Who was there first? Mum and Dad!

I'm so grateful to my parents. Now obviously yes, it's partly because they still make me dinner when I come to visit, and pick me up and drop me off at places and talk to me and help me through things. But they also showed me the value of learning, kindness and tolerance* (yes, particularly the 1st - that was most overt. The other 2 are just who they are).

My brothers. Tom played with me and taught me to cycle and calls me to chat about this game he is designing. (Dad tried to teach me to cycle but he gave up in the end. Tom did not give up. Hurrah!) Bob helps me feel better, counsels me, reads my stories (even though I have a feeling one or two might have traumatised him...).

And then random scatter approach:

I'm grateful my mind is getting better.

I'm grateful the aching is (generally) going.

I'm glad my hands have been steady the last few days.

I'm grateful for all the friends I have. I love them so much! They are my network, that holds me up.

I'm grateful that I have the lucky DNA of a (fairly) able mind, and strong bones and good health.

"In Neuromancer, William Gibson writes, 'The sky about the port was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel.' Try to create a description - as evocative as the one above - about the current sky."

TAKE 1It's black.(Hee hee!)

TAKE 2I cannot see the sky. Or not all of it. Or not the authentic it. Before the black is a multiplicity of grids of metal and glass, keeping us separate.

TAKE 3You know flamingoes? And turquoise (the stone). I could just say turquoise the colour, but I'm trying to be creative, and also precise. Those who know the stone will know the colour I am referring to. (Those who don't - Google it: 'turquoise; stone'.)

Anyway, put the stone and the flamingoes in a blender. And soy milk. Don't fully mix - leave it the texture of brownie before you bake it. That was the sky two nights ago.

​My body is a delicate, OCD flower that cannot handle it if I haven't just had a shower (an hour ago doesn't cut it), or if my muscles are aching because I have had the temerity to exercise, or if, when I had my shower, I didn't wash my hair on the required day. It doesn't matter if it's not clean, if my mind realises I should have washed it - that it was a wash my hair day, then there will be no sleep. Not for ages. And if I'm even the slightest bit hungry I will stay awake until I am ravenous, then get up for a snack, then, finally, go to sleep.

​My mind does various things. Sometimes it is just ON. Not thinking, not worrying, just a bit sort of nrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr (imagine a constant loud drone of something. Except without the sound. But it's that feeling - the mind feeling caused by that type of sound.)

​Sometimes it (part of it) sits there going, 'Doo be doo be do,' while another part of it goes, 'Shhh!'..

​Sometimes I stress about things.

​Sometimes I'm making up way too good a story. This is when one of my sleeping techniques backfires: I've found quite a good thing is to make up a story (because it makes my brain attach to something, but in a not stressful way - so keeps it still, stops it pinging around). BUT it must be a boring story. I find the best things are stories of someone who is ill or very tired and so is lying pretty much asleep in a bed. Otherwise, I'm kept awake by the various sagas I make up.

​Of course there's the related problem of 'Oh no, you opened the floodgates'. Lots of you will probably recognise this - I turn the light off, I turn it on, I write a note about a story idea in my phone or on a scrap of paper, or get up and write it in the relevant notebook. Then back into bed, light off.... Then light on, write note.... Repeat this many many times.

​One time I tried to count sheep. It went like this: I imagine a fence and some sheep. They jump over it one at a time. I count. THEN the sheep get faster. Much faster. And faster and faster! I count very fast. THEN several jump at once. I go, 'Ok so I'd got to 25, then that was 4 so that's 2-" But THEN some jump back the other way. ARGH! That is MATHS! Lots of MATHS! Obviously my mind didn't want to sleep that night.

"Attempt to recall a bad date or a botched interview, or any one-on-one situation that went awry with awkwardness. What stands out to you?"

Mr Tickle. The tale of Mr Tickle is one I often tell. And I'll say right at the beginning, that the thing that stands out to me is that for some reason I did what I did because I wanted to avoid an awkward situation by leaving, so instead, out of politeness, I did what follows....

Mr Tickle is a friend of a friend. He seemed very nice. (I'm sure he is very nice.) Interesting, intellectual. I went to his house for dinner and a film - a DATE!

I started seeing a few warning signs as we had dinner - but those little signs of arrogance did not preview what occurred.

The thing is, people seem often to not know when I actually mean something, and especially not recognise when I'm very, very angry. I think I must be the epitome of British politeness. Or have been having botox for the last 24 years without noticing.

So, when we sat down to watch the film, and Mr Tickle started to tickle me...he didn't believe me when I said, 'Please don't tickle me, I hate being tickled,' and various other words to that effect. I don't think I was laughing and saying it in an 'ooh, stop that, hee hee hee' way, and if I was, I certainly quickly st0pped. The 'hint' was not got, though - even when I grabbed his thumbs and wrenched them into a thumb lock: he still continued trying to tickle me, until the imminent danger of losing two thumbs (and the pain) made him stay still. Yup. Weird.

But the weirder thing (if it's possible) is that I then sat and watched the rest of the film with his thumbs almost to the point of breaking, and then let him walk me home.

"Go to the edge of a bookshelf, count seven books in, and take that one out. Open it to page seven and count to the seventh sentence on that page. Write a poem that starts with something from that sentence."

This has been sitting on Lizzie's computer stand on her desk at work for ages. I forgot to do this at home (where the bookshelf is) so have just used this book. I've never heard of Norman before, but that's quite a nice line. So...more poetry.... This is one of those types of poems (most of my attempts are) where it's possible it's good, but probably I'm just apeing what I call 'pretentious wank'.

Once Sharp Sand

Glass - I collect it, sea-glass,On every beach I come to nowFor you.

Blue is the most exciting colour (rare),But all of it shows that minutely pitted textureOf blades become gentle.

Whenever Nicola (my recent housemate - now sadly moved out) hears me talk about Quilty, she laughs because she has a friend called Quilty. (NB I don't talk about Quilty that often. Just if it comes up. Like now :) ) The idea of a human called Quilty confuses me because it is clearly the affectionate (add a 'y') version of the word QUILT. As in a blanket. (Sorry to the human Quilty - I should not criticise/question your name.)

So, Quilty. It is possible that Quilty still exists...somewhere in my room...(bed).... Although, obviously, as an adult I am perfectly capable of existing without it. (Quilty has no gender.) I definitely don't hug it as I go to sleep.

Quilty was my blanket as as baby. (I can hear many gasps of surprise right now.) Yes, that is what Quilty was. Which means it is, essentially, a rectangle. Because of its extreme age (34 now!), and because of a PREVIOUS habit I had of chewing Quilty, it has had to have several new covers. At one point there wasn't enough of the fabric I'd selected so MUM HAD TO CUT OFF A CORNER OF QUILTY!!! (So I guess Quilty is technically a pentasomething. Irregular pentagon?)

That unfortunate (maiming) event started the black-fabric-with-flashes-of-colour-and-some-lovely-silk-thread-sewing-done-by-me-to-keep-Quilty-located-within-its-casing era, and because of the end of the chewing phase, Quilty lived in that case for I guess about 25 years, but has recently had to graduate to its current home. This is a black, white, blue, purple and yellow bit of fabric given to me by my friend Sarah when she came back from Kenya. As she has been me friend since primary school, she is probably aware of Quilty, and will hopefully approve of this use of (some of) her gift.

P.S. in case some of you are drunk/a tad...easily confused.... The above picture is NOT Quilty.

"Does reading the phrase 'the red wheelbarrow' immediately conjure up William Carlos Williams's poem of the same name? Williams was one of the imagists, early modern poets who focused on an economy of language in free verse that spoke as much in image as in rhythm. Try it for yourself in a short, visually focused poem."

This is a great thing for me to do. With all of those visual skills I have :)

So, first, does that phrase conjure up that poem?

No. Soz.

I feel I know it, or should know it, or have encountered it at some point. I mean I studied American Literature. And the term 'imagists' sounds familiar.

A poem I do love, with incredible imagery, is this one:

Design, by Robert Frost

I found a dimpled spider, fat and white, On a white heal-all, holding up a moth Like a white piece of rigid satin cloth-- Assorted characters of death and blight Mixed ready to begin the morning right, Like the ingredients of a witches’ broth-- A snow-drop spider, a flower like a froth, And dead wings carried like a paper kite. What had that flower to do with being white, The wayside blue and innocent heal-all? What brought the kindred spider to that height, Then steered the white moth thither in the night? What but design of darkness to appall?-- If design govern in a thing so small.

Take an image, and then load if with a religious crisis: love it. Is 'God' good? Is the idea of him being all-powerful and all-pervasive good, or actually a tad scary (Big Brother style)? Love it.

Anyway, here is an attempt at a poem from an image that is burned into me:

The tube is in your mouth.Your eyes and face are over-fullof water (pudgy, puffed),Closed and bruised.The nurse asks if I am ok.I am not.

"If you could broadcast a thirty-second message to the entire world - over seven billion people - what would you say?"

There would have been a time when I would have voiced my concerns about over-population, and questioned whether having a child was a good thing for the child or the rest of the world, given the future that might await it (that I believe will await it). But I've learned that there is no point, that the voice of rationality and numbers is not heard here. (And it does have its potential, scary, drawbacks.)

BUT I think it's too late now - so there isn't really a whole lot of point. Instead, well, here you go:​People of this world! We are screwed. We have only a certain amount of time left. What, therefore, is the best way we can use these...decades? I think we might have some decades left. Maybe, if we are lucky, a hundred years!

So how should we spend them?

We should be kind. We should be kind to everyone. We should talk to our friends and our mothers and fathers. We should smile at the people we walk past in the street and maybe even say hi - even smiling at the people in their cars who beep at us or the people who are shouting and angry. And those people - the angry ones - we need to make them happy, or as happy as we can. Talk to them - what is hurting them, and how can we help them to get rid of, or at the very least lessen, it?

Do not worry about MONEY.

There is no point in earning and saving money for the future. And, even if there was, wouldn't it be a far nicer thing to go round to your lonely old neighbour's house and have a cup of tea than pull an extra shift at work? (Unless you happen to have an awesome job, like me :) )

And how would you rather spend your money? Buying more shit you do not need? Re-doing your kitchen one more time? Buying an extra jumper because so far you don't have a lavender-coloured one, or, at least, not a lavender-coloured one that was made this year in that very special style that is now 'in'? Or would you rather spend your pounds/dollars etc. helping make a home for a homeless person or a refugee? (And then spend sometime helping that man or woman to be happy. Give them your support, your time, your love.)

We don't have much of this life-gift left. So let's try to make sure that life IS actually a gift for as many people as possible. Not some shit present that they would rather be without.

P.S. The picture is from Thor: Ragnarok. Apparently 'Ragnarok' = End of the World in I guess Norse mythology or something.

"Outline a compelling cliff-hanger, something that leaves a big dangling question for readers. Be sure to build up tension to give your cliff-hanger dizzying height, for the reader to fall farther back into the story."

Oh plot. I suck at plot. (Yes, I know - this isn't the best weakness to have as a writer.) Will have to think on this (and watch one of the great videos* Cata sent me).*By 'video' I of course mean online filmy thing.

(SEVERAL WEEKS LATER, AND VIDEO STILL NOT YET WATCHED....)

Ok, I will take something out of one of the ridiculous 'soap operas' I continuously make up in my head:

USA, slavery era, around the time of William Wilberforce in the UK. (I.e. people in the UK are campaigning to end the slave trade.)

2 men - 1 British, and one Southern USA, are standing, pistols at dawn.

Why? Flashback. The UK man is an anti-slavery campaigner. He is travelling the USA with his band, which includes former ex-slaves. They were performing in a pub when the USA man brought a gang to fight them. The UK guy scornfully shot USA man's horse through the open doorway and told him to fuck the hell off.

Next day there comes a challenge (for insult and damage to property, in the ye olde aristocratic way) and the UK guy, who (for other reasons which I can't be bothered to go into, but include what would now be PTSD from being in the army) doesn't care if he lives or dies accepts.

Back to the present - UK guy waits and lets the USA guy shoot him - the shot grazes off his left shoulder, and blood starts to slowly seep through his jacket, darkening the grey fabric and then slowly running down.

The USA guy shouts at him, "Come on then, take your shot."

UK guy says one word to one of the black members of his band, in that man's native language.